


Afghanistan or Iraq?

by SherlockMalfoy



Series: Sherlock!Wizardverse Drabbles - General [22]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Pre-Slash, sherlock's patronus is a hedgehog
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-17
Updated: 2012-08-17
Packaged: 2017-11-12 08:28:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/488789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SherlockMalfoy/pseuds/SherlockMalfoy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In order for a wizard to produce a patronus, he or she must use the happiest memory they possess. For Sherlock, it's the one memory upon which all his happiness is built.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Afghanistan or Iraq?

John was feeling better after the encounter with the dark wizards who carried on in Moriarty’s name. It had taken a few days for him to get his strength back. Sherlock had come to see him a few times while he was stuck in bed recovering, but he wouldn’t stay long.  
      Mycroft spent more time with him, actually. Explaining to him what had happened. Asking him questions Sherlock had already asked and he’d answered. He gave him a few books to read that Harry had insisted may help his understanding of this bizzare world into which he had been thrown.  
      But now he felt better, and had used his time to read through books on everything from basic wizarding history to creatures and their mating habits. (Which Mycroft had insisted was of the utmost importance that he understand. Especially a section on some sort of nymph that had been bookmarked. That particular section had handwritten notes in the margins of the parchment pages) He understood a little more than he did before he’d been put out by that terrifying black floating… thing from hell.  
      He had insisted on returning the books to the family library himself, desperate for any excuse to get out of bed and out of the same, now depressing, purple bedroom.  
      And that’s how he found Sherlock for the first time in two days.  
      The man was sitting in the library, legs thrown over the side of a very obviously expensive and antique chair as if it were a piece of IKEA flatpack furnature. A book was open in on his chest, with another open in his lap. He was scribbling on the one in his lap.  
      John watched him just long enough to know the book in his lap was the leatherbound book he’d bought Sherlock for Christmas.  
      He was about to clear his throat to announce his presence, but Sherlock spoke first. “No need to do that,” he said, still scribbling in his book as he turned the pages of the one on his chest. “Finished with the tomes?”  
      John stepped closer, slowly and set the books down on an ornate gilded oak table. “They were… informative.”  
      ”But you still have questions, otherwise you would have simply placed the books on the table and walked out.” He didn’t wait for John to speak before steamrolling on. “You want to know how you survived the dementor. You want to know why Mycroft and mummy selected those specific books for you to read. You want to know why I haven’t removed that bracelet from your wrist. But most of all,” he now cut his eyes to John, who had moved to sit in a nearby chair. “You want to know why I did not spend my time at your bedside worrying over my only friend’s welfare when that is what a supposedly normal person would have done.”  
      John watched as he stopped writing and looked at him from the corner of his eye. Watching his reaction to his deductions of John’s thoughts.  
      ”Actually,” John said, leaning back comfortably in the armchair he’d chosen. It was more modern than much of the furnature, and he guessed it was probably Harry’s doing. The man, he realized, loved comfort over style and prestige. “I was wondering what you’d decided to use the book for.”  
      ”Case notes,” Sherlock replied.  
      ”But we’re not on a case.”  
      ”You’re not,” Sherlock said, turning a couple more pages. “I am.”  
      John Watson was a lot of things. But he wasn’t stupid. Otherwise he wouldn’t be sitting where he was now. “Sherlock… You’re supposed to be on vacation. We’re supposed to be on vacation.”  
      ”This ceased to be a Christmas holiday vacation when my only friend was attacked by fanatical dark wizards. I am currently researching the methods of controlling dementors, and cross referencing them with the known branches of wizardry. Once the list is compiled, I may compare it to the list of known death eaters that are still alive and not locked in Azkaban for one reason or another.”  
      John sighed. He wanted to help. After all, Sherlock wouldn’t have made this a personal crusade if it had been Lestrade or even Mycroft who’d been attacked. Hell, he knew the only other person Sherlock would even consider making a case out of it was his own mummy.  
      ”Don’t, John,” Sherlock said, knowing what John had been thinking. “This is out of your depth.” He closed the book on his chest, then his casebook and sat up. He turned his body, swinging long legs to rest his thighs on the seat and his feet on the floor. It was obvious to the doctor that the man hadn’t slept in days. His pallor was much more pale than was normal for him. His eyes worn and tired. Sherlock noticed John examining him from his seat and sighed. The books rested in his lap, the pen was tucked neatly behind an ear for lack of anywhere else for it to go. He leaned to the side, to the left, John noted, and rested his arm on the side of the chair. His hand came up to curl into a fist. He rested his chin on his fist and watched John watching him.  
      ”Where shall we begin?”  
      John didn’t know how to respond. He frowned in concentration as Sherlock spoke. John could hear the slight strain in it that most others never noticed. The sign that Sherlock was exhausted. That he really needed a nice cup of tea and a long night’s sleep, but was instead fueling himself on black coffee with two sugars and pure adrenaline. “I’ve already explained why I was not at your bedside. Working on our case.”  
      ” _Our_ case? I was the one who-“  
      ”Yes, **our** case. What happens to you affects me directly. You are my flatmate, and as I have stated on numerous occasions, my only friend. Without you I cannot continue the Work.”  
      ”I think that’s the closest to a true and honest compliment you’ve ever given me.”  
      ”Do not get used to it,” Sherlock said, watching John watch him again. They were studying one another closely. John ticking off every shred of self-neglect that was typical in Sherlock’s behavior when left alone for too long. And Sherlock for side effects and trauma from John’s encounter with the darker side of the world Sherlock would rather leave well enough alone.  
      When John didn’t ask him anything, Sherlock picked back up on one of the questions he had deduced John must have been wanting to ask when he’d come in. “The bracelet and the dementor,” Sherlock said. The expression that passed John’s face told him this was a correct deduction. “The bracelet, as I stated when I placed it on you, shows that you are no ordinary muggle. You are a guest of a wizarding family, and you are not to be oblivated or rounded up for any reason. It also serves as a wizarding GPS, should you get lost. As for how you survived the dementor attack, I cast a Patronus charm. I was unsure it would actually work. I have only ever been able to use it once before while I was… Away.”  
      John didn’t need to ask for clarification. The crack in the mask that was Sherlock Holmes was evident. He meant the three years he had spent _dead_. On the run. “It’s a shame I missed it,” John said. “Mycroft tells me it looked… unexpected.”  
      ”Quite.”  
      ”A hedgehog,” John said, waiting for a reaction. “In a jumper.”  
      ”I hadn’t noticed,” Sherlock replied, a gleam in his eye.  
      ”Sitting in a teacup.”  
      Sherlock hid his smile, but John knew it was just below the surface. “That is preposterous. A patronus is and can only be an animal. While clothing on the animal is plausable, additional accessories are highly improbable. If there had ever been such an occurance, I would remember.”  
      John did his best to control his own face, willing himself not to laugh at the absurdity. Thinking back to one of his bedside discussions with Mycroft concerning what had happened to him, he remembered the detailed explanation the politician had given him concerning a wizard’s patronus. It matched up to what he had read in the Harry Potter books well enough for him to grasp. In order for a wizard to summon one, he or she must think of a happy memory. The happiest one they could possibly have. Without it, the charm would fail.  
      Obviously, since John was sitting in the family library, looking at Sherlock and trying not to laugh, it didn’t.  
      And Mycroft had also told him it was one of the few spells and charms his younger brother could never seem to master. So, if he was going to get information out of Sherlock, now seemed like the perfect time since he was having a rare moment of candid openness.  
      ”What was it?”  
      ”To what are you refferring, John?”  
      ”Your patronus charm thing. What thought triggered it? What could possibly be better than a tripple murder in Sussex with only a band aid and a paperclip as clues? A crime so impossible to solve it even stumps the great Sherlock Holmes?”  
      Sherlock pressed his lips into a thin line. He hadn’t expected John to remain on this particular topic. He looked at him, no, he observed him from his chair. Only shifting his position to adjust his elbow on the arm of his chair.  
  **John’s eyes were wide, but not in surprise. His breathing was quick but shallow. Anticipation then. Hands in his lap, clenching and unclenching.** **He was not angry. No, he was uncertain. He didn’t move his head much. Neck muscles tense. Stiff. No, shoulder stiff. Left. No other physical signs of discomfort. A residual ache. Not surprising the past few days. The dark wizards, then the dementor. Days after spent in bed. A mild nightmare as well. Disregard phsyical discomfort. No bearing on the current moment.**  
 **Slight tilting of head just now. Subconcious lick of lips. He’s thinking.**  
      Sherlock’s conclusion… **He thinks-**  
      John’s eyes soften. He smiles just a little.  
 **Correction, he _ **knows**_ the answer is about himself.  
      Result…**  
      ”Afghanistan or Iraq?” Sherlock finally says.

       **Ah. Now the eyes widen in surprise. Not what he’d been expecting to hear.** “Really?” John asks. “Of all the… You have to pick something as mundane as _that_ one.”  
      ”That moment is the single event upon which the remainder of my pleasant memory catelogue is based. Without it, I dare say it may have taken me one more victim before I would have been able to unravel the pink lady.”  
      Sherlock drummed his fingers on his books before sitting up straight. “It’s late,” he said, picking up the books and rising to his feet. “You need more rest, and I have more work to do.”  
      ”So we’re done? I thought you said I had one more question.”  
      ”You do. However, I need to think. And you need to return to bed.”  
      ”You need to sleep. And when did you eat last?”  
      ”You know I don’t eat while on a case John. How long have we known one another?”  
      John gave him a hard look. “I’ll go back to bed when you eat something.”  
      Surprisingly, that is exactly what happened. It wasn’t much, John would admit. But Sherlock had willingly eaten a slice and a half of toast. With jam. And had half a cup of coffee before forcing John to go back to his bed.  
      However, Sherlock was kind before he locked himself back in the library. He’d given John more books to read. Books on wizard medicine, which he had thought John may enjoy given his muggle medical background.


End file.
